


Freedom, by Rosa

by Yossk



Category: Brooklyn Nine-Nine (TV)
Genre: Character Study, Gen, Missing Scene, Post release & pre-Shaw's, Prison, Rosa Diaz & Jake Peralta Friendship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-23
Updated: 2020-05-23
Packaged: 2021-03-03 03:39:40
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,155
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24338272
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Yossk/pseuds/Yossk
Summary: Gravel spits as she maneuvers out of the parking lot. She flies down the highway, that godforsaken crappy hellhole of a fucking building merging into the horizon behind her.
Relationships: Rosa Diaz & Jake Peralta, Rosa Diaz & Terry Jeffords
Comments: 9
Kudos: 43





	1. One

“Heeey, Diaz. You alright?”

“I’m good.” Rosa says, as Terry moves in for a hug. She sidesteps neatly and strides over to his trailer to inspect her bike. There’s a frisson under her skin that says the next person to touch her without asking permission is going to get punched in the throat. “You get everything?”

He looks like a kicked puppy for about two seconds, and then shrugs it off because hey, it’s Rosa, and who the hell knows what’s going on in her head?

“Yep. It’s all here.” He pats the backpack hanging over his shoulder.

She holds a hand out and raises an eyebrow, squinting into the sunlight.

His grip tightens. “You sure you don’t want to come home?”

“Yes.”

“I can’t give you a lift anywhere?”

“No.” She shakes her head.

The kicked puppy look returns. She softens. 

“There were always people in there. It was never quiet, and it never got dark. I need to level out. I’ll be in on Monday.” Her skin is itching. She’s in her too-tight court suit, dumb plastic glasses stuffed in her pocket and her hair loose and wild around her shoulders. “I need to get changed.”

Terry hands her the bag, turning around solicitously as she steps into the shadow of his car. There are jeans and a t-shirt and her best leather jacket folded neatly on the top of the bag. Socks stuffed into her boots. Her watch sits there too. She strips efficiently, wind biting at her and dresses in own clothes for the first time in eight week. She frowns. Her pants are a little loose. Her watch is heavy and cold. She holds it tight in one hand, letting the links dig into her palm. She’s had a stupid plastic tag on her left wrist for two months. But the watch is metal. And she wears it on her right. She still doesn’t want it. She drops it into one of the bag’s pockets. 

The vomit-coloured court suit is flapping on the floor about her feet, about to be whisked off by the breeze. She gathers it in her arms and turns back to Terry.

“Can you get rid of this? Just burn it or something, I don’t care.”

“Sure.” He takes it from her. He’s watching her and his mouth keeps twitching.

Rosa folds her arms across her chest, “Spit it out, Sarge.”

“Are you going to Argentina?”

“No.” She’ll call Adrian. As soon as she’s had a chance to be alone. To think her own thoughts for just one second.

He nods. “Good, that’s good.”

Her bike wheels easily off the trailer and she pulls her helmet on like coming home. Terry goes in for another hug, but thinks better of it. She takes pity on him and squeezes his arm, “Thanks for bringing my stuff. And everything else. I’ll see you Monday.”

Gravel spits as she maneuvers out of the parking lot. She flies down the highway, that godforsaken crappy hellhole of a fucking building merging into the horizon behind her.

…

Rosa pulls over at the first rest-stop to give her bike a thorough once-over. Hawkins could still have her killed. It’s paranoid, but it’s happened before. The bike’s fine. Oil’s a little low. Nothing says sabotage. 

She pays for her gas in cash.

…

Prison is awful. She knew that before. Terrible food, no dignity, imminent threat of violence. Stupid people shouting and clanging metal and _noise_ all the time.

But she’d never thought about the air. Still and stale and unfiltered. Always too warm or too cold, stuffy and full of other people’s sweat. Even in the yard, it’s not _outside_. There’s no breeze behind thirty-foot walls. 

The bike is warm and responsive and finally under her control. The cold air rushing at her face and tangling through her hair is _alive_.

She’s a hundred miles into rural Connecticut, winding through the forests, the road ribboning out ahead of her. But the trees block out the sky on either side and there’s a claustrophobic itch under her skin. She’d rather hit the coast. She checks her mirrors. There’s no-one for miles. She brakes hard and does a u-turn in the middle of the road. There’s no-one asking where she’s going or what the fuck she’s doing with that toothbrush. She laughs. Loud. Drowning it out with the roar of the engine.

…

A hundred miles later, Rosa meanders along the coast road. Gulls screech and the air tastes salty. The beach was a bad idea. Sand is awful and she’s not dressed for swimming. When the breeze drops, the sun beats down and black leather soaks it all up, the heat of the bike between her legs adding to the sweat-fest. She stops where rocks tumble from the road to the sea, stripping off her jacket and taking a moment to cool off. It should feel better. The sea and the sky and the endless horizon: the ultimate openness. But it’s like falling off the edge. She’s tired and under the salt she can still smell a cell. 

Maybe this is too much, too fast. She hasn’t showered yet, or eaten a meal that doesn’t taste of sludge. She watches some kids run around with a beach ball further up the road. It bounces into the sea and they all dive after it. If there’d been time between ballet and gymnastics and studying, it might have sparked a memory. It doesn’t. She gets back on her bike.

…

The spa hotel on the edge of town looks promising. Large, anonymous, probably has a decent shower. She checks in under a false name. It’ll be a long time before she can get Hawkins out of her head.

“Here’s your key, ma’am” says the friendly, disinterested lady behind the counter, “It’s on the third floor. Elevators are down the hallway to your right.”

“Thanks.” Rosa smiles, relaxed and calm and not at all like she’d woken up in a cell.

“Enjoy your stay.”

When she reaches the room, she slams the door and turns the lock, listening to the tumblers click three times before she slides to the floor and take three deep breaths. 

She examines the room from the floor. The bed is a big marshmallow puff of a thing. Bathed in light from the French doors to the balcony overlooking the sea. She walks tentatively over to it. It smells of cotton and laundry detergent. She runs one hand over the sheets. She could have gone home. Put her feet up on Terry’s dash and listened to eight weeks of stories about Kagney and Lacey and Ava. But it doesn’t matter. She’s here now. Make the best of it.

Rosa pulls her phone out of her bag, switches it on and leave it to vibrate on the bed. The bathroom is blindingly white and the shower is like nothing on god’s earth. She locks the door and fills the room with so much steam that the towels get damp. There’s a fluffy white bathrobe in the closet and she wraps herself in that instead, leaving her hair to drip-dry onto the carpet.

Her phone has stilled and she scrolls through the messages. There’s one from Jake that’s almost entirely emojis. Two short essays from Amy. Boyle is spamming the precinct Whatsapp thread with selfies of all three of them at the airport and for once she can’t begrudge him. Her email is mostly a pile of crap from her cable company, online shops and a few from her bank. But there’s a bunch of weird email addresses that are definitely Adrian. She opens one, smirks and saves them for later. There’s a text from the Captain, signed _yours sincerely, Captain Raymond Holt_ , and one from Gina that simply reads _sup_. And three missed calls from her Mamá. She sends Gina a middle finger emoji and tosses the phone back on the bed.

It’s mid-afternoon. Too late to bother with lunch and too early to get dinner. Her backpack’s still full. She turns it upside down. A change of clothes and a wash bag fall out, but there’s still a weight in it. She pulls out a book. It’s a hefty tome by Rohinton Mistry, that she’d been reading the week before she left. Reading is a strong term. Tracing the words whilst her mind went somewhere else. She has no memory of its contents.

She reads the blurb on the back and leafs through the pages. It’s so quiet she can hear herself breathing. She sits on the bed in her bathrobe and reads.

…

Several hours later Rosa turns a page and squints to make out the words. She looks out the window. The ocean’s gone glassy. The sun is sinking along the coast to the west. She turns her wrist, but the weight of her watch is missing. She rifles through her bag and finds it in an inside pocket. It’s gone seven. She takes a breath. _Get a grip._ She puts it on and turns on the light. 

It’s tempting to order room service, but she might forget that she can leave. Some of the tension has seeped from her shoulders. She dresses instead and takes her book on a date at the hotel restaurant. She takes a table in the corner with her back to the wall and doesn’t look up for three courses and coffee. The food is decent by recent standards and she has more appetite than she’s had in weeks. Afterward, she sips a cocktail at the bar, half aware of the ocean moving rhythmically beyond the window. 

There are footsteps behind her. Despite the novel and the well-honed _leave me the fuck alone_ expression, some guy has taken it upon himself to approach her, with a drawn-out _Hey_ and a heavy arm across her shoulders. It’s the prison officer who twisted her wrist behind her back and wrenched her off to solitary. It’s a woman called Carla, who grabbed her by her hair and threw her against the shower wall because she was _looking at her funny_. It’s the hand on her arm and the stares and the cold metal against her wrists, and Jake, white as a sheet, beside her. 

Her fist stops three inches from his throat. She’s a police officer. She knows what assault and self-defence look like, and she knows which this is, no matter how she feels, electricity biting under her skin.

The guy backs off, eyes wide and confused.

“Sorry.” She grunts, though she’s not, “I just got out of prison.”

His face spasms, and he makes a noise between _ok_ and _right_ and walks hastily to his table in the corner. Rosa snaps her book closed and grinds her teeth. Finally, that’s actually true. 

…

The bar closes at eleven. Her eyelids are heavy. She hasn’t re-opened her book; too rattled to lose herself and too stubborn to leave. She’s watched the ocean and her drink. Listened to the people around her. There’s a scumbag two seats down who’s cheating on his wife, and the woman behind her is pregnant and trying to hide it from her friends. 

She stumbles back to her room, changes into her pyjamas and brushes her teeth. It’s so dark and so quiet.

She can’t sleep.

  
  
  
  



	2. Two

Rosa groans.

There’s a strange light on the ceiling and a frantic buzzing. She fumbles in the dark for her phone, stumbles out of bed and walks to the window, opening the door to the balcony as she answers.

“Are you awake?”

Jake’s voice is reassuring and painful, “Yes.”

“I mean, obviously you’re awake now. Were you awake before I called?”

She smiles, “Yep.” 

“How are you doing?”

She screws her eyes shut, rubbing a hand over her face to force herself awake, “Not sleeping.”

“Couldn’t sleep either. It’s too quiet. In _Brooklyn_.” There’s a pause. “Terry said you haven’t come home yet.”

“Nah. Rode my bike around. I need some time away from people.”

“I get that. I— _oh, hey babe_.” Amy’s footsteps shuffle past in the background.

“Hey babe yourself.” She makes her voice low and husky.

“ _I’m just talking to_ — Wait what? Rosa!”

She smirks and listens to Amy’s sleep-heavy mumbling, “Tell her I’m fine.”

“She says hi.” Jake’s voice has gone warm and soft. 

Rosa leans on the railing, “You two lovebirds go back to bed.”

“We can stay on if you want.”

She rolls her eyes, “You called me.”

“Oh yeah. Good point.”

“Goodnight Jake.”

“’Night.”

She’s wide awake. Her phone says three am. Gina has replied to her message: a single heart-eyes emoji.

A lump grows at the back of Rosa’s throat. She shakes her head. She hasn’t cried. She won’t cry. There’s always been something to do, a facade to maintain. A sobbing cop wouldn’t have lasted two days. The railing digs into the palms of her hands. Fuck. Her breath hitches and her eyes water. 

She shivers. She sits on the concrete floor and leans against the window. Her shoulders shake. Why is she doing this now? It’s _over_. Those months of her life are gone. They’re done. 

She hasn’t missed anything important: another New York summer. Perhaps she’d have squeezed in a week away, convinced Adrian that safe-houses and holidays are not the same thing. The air is warm and the concrete cold. Her feet are bare from bed. She wipes her face and tries to slow down. _Fifteen years_. That whole day is a blur. Her legs have never given way like that. It’s terrifying.

Rosa turns her phone over between her hands. She watches the ocean through the railing. That feels too familiar. She looks up at the stars and the clouds moving overhead. She could have missed everything. Cases she’d never have solved. Her whole career just _gone_. She couldn’t have had kids. She doesn’t want kids. That doesn’t stop the punch in the gut. 

She calls Jake back.

“Hey.” He whispers, “Hang on, Amy’s asleep again.” He fumbles out of bed. A door clicks open and shut.

Her face is wet and her nose is running. She sniffs. 

“Are you crying? Did I make you cry?” His voice is concerned and a tiny bit triumphant

“No.”

“No you’re not crying, or no it’s not my fault?”

She wipes her face, pauses, “The second. It’s Gina’s.”

“Sounds about right. What did she do?”

“Sent me a heart-eyes emoji.”

“ _That bitch_.”

Rosa fights back a smile. “Thanks for picking up.”

“Any time.” He pauses. “What’s up?”

The silence stretches. She starts a few sentences. Discards them for not getting to the point. 

Eventually, Jake speaks. His voice is low, “This has been the worst eight weeks of my life. Just awful. I should be happy that it’s over. But I keep thinking how much worse it could have been.”

“Uhuh.”

“You too?”

“Fifteen years is a long time.”  
`  
“I’d have lost Amy.”

“Nah. She’d have waited.”

“I didn’t want her to. I was trying to decide how long before I told her to move on.”

He’s an idiot. “Since when has Amy Santiago done anything that you’ve told her to?”

“You make a good point.”

They’re quiet for a few minutes. It’s funny. How she’s been wishing more than anything to be alone, and now she can’t stand the idea of not being able to hear the soft sounds of Jake’s breathing on the other end of the line. 

“It's like whiplash.” She says.

“What do you mean?”

Rosa pauses, wonders how best to explain. “There was an… incident in the canteen a couple of days ago. Turned into a massive food fight.” Jake doesn’t laugh, or make light of it, like anyone else would. It sounds hilarious, but there’d been so much noise and chaos and rage that Rosa had wanted to curl into a ball under a table and never come out. She hadn’t. She’d fought. She’d had to. “A guard took me down with a baton across my shoulders. I was on the floor and my mouth was full of concrete dust. She just kept going. And there was _shit-all_ I could do about it.” She threads her fingers through the hem of her pyjamas, “I just let go. My life was over - what was the point of holding on to the person I used to be?”

Jake’s quiet for a while. Rosa lets her gaze drift downward, focusing on the ocean beyond the railing, watching the waves crash and burn over and over again.

“But now it’s not over.” He says.

“Now it’s not over.” She echoes back to him. Her back is still a mess of bruises. But everything else has snapped back into place. The door frame behind her digs in painfully. 

Jake swallows audibly, “I was about to get stabbed. I wouldn’t have lasted another week.”

She grimaces “Shit. I knew you’d get yourself in trouble.” There’s no bite to the words. Just a yawning pit of fear that hasn’t got the memo. 

“And now I’m home and Amy’s here and everything’s _amazing_. But it’s kind of like the twilight zone. I can’t believe it’s real.”

“Why do you think I’m not at home?”

Jake sighs pathetically, “I knew you were smarter than me. No need to rub it in.”

Something stirs. It might be close to a laugh. “Give me that in writing.”

Truth is, it’s not her first rodeo. Nearly twenty years ago, she’d walked out of juvie with a messenger bag and change for the bus fare in her back pocket. So fucking _hopeful_. Terrified of what her parents would say, but desperate to be home, to make things better. Except there’d been no home to go to. Just a door slammed in her face and a bag of her belongings on the mat. She’d ridden her bike then, too. Picked it up from the abandoned garage she hid it in and pushed the clapped-out rickety thing for miles. Leaving everything she was afraid of far behind her.

Of course, she’d had to trade it and nearly all her savings for a car the next day. You can’t sleep on a bike. 

Rosa shifts on the concrete. Her ass is numb and there are goosebumps on her arms. It is not warm. She tilts her head back. Three missed calls from Mamá this time. It’s better than silence. But does she even care any more?

(She does)

Jake’s gone quiet. His breathing is soft and even. She frowns, muttering into the handset, “Jake, are you asleep?”

“Mmmhnng.”

She rolls her eyes, “Goodnight Jake.” And hangs up. He deserves to sleep, but Rosa’s wide awake. She scrambles up and grabs her jacket and shoes. Outside is good, but staring at the ocean through metal railings is morbid. She examines the portico roof above the doorway and boosts herself onto the railing. A few steps up and a slightly mad scramble and she’s sitting on top of it, legs straddling the apex. It’s uncomfortable. She slides down and returns with a pillow, leaning back against it and watching the ocean swell in the moonlight.

She takes a deep, calming breath. In for four, and out for four. And again. Slowing down until her mind stops racing. The sound of the ocean is calming. It doesn’t echo. Prison is all hard surfaces; every sound bouncing back at you again and again until you want to take a sledgehammer to your skull to shut it out. She needs to slow down. She wants everything to be back to normal again _right now_ but she knows that’s not how it works. What did she say to Sarge? _Levelling out_. It was just nonsense to get away from his scrutiny, but perhaps she’d made more sense than she’d realised.

Her phone is heavy in her pocket. She pulls it out and thumbs quick responses to Amy, Charles and Holt. She finds Adrian’s emails and doesn’t need her jacket to stay warm any more. But it’s not all filth. He really fucking cares and she suddenly misses him so badly it’s a deep pain in her gut. She calls him. He doesn’t pick up. He could be anywhere, realistically, and that should make her feel so alone, but it doesn’t. He’ll come back.

She turns the phone over and over in her hands, hunched over her lap so the pillow shifts and the roof digs into her ass again. There’s one more person to deal with. Her fingers hesitate over the keypad. She could just leave it. Call tomorrow. Or next week. Whenever.

But it won’t be next week. It’ll be three months time, or six months or whenever the hell the guilt or sense of duty or _whatever it is_ next gets too much to handle. She taps something out, skips the thinking part and hits send.

_Te llamaré mañana_

_I’ll call you tomorrow_

There. Now she’s committed. That’s enough.

Her back aches and she shifts, re-jigging the pillow situation until it’s comfortable. She runs a thumb along her fingernails, grimacing at the ragged edges. She catches her leg jittering, knee bouncing up and down and forces it to still. Restlessness skitters under her skin. She hums a tune she can’t quite remember.

The peace of the moment, of counting the waves and breathing with the ocean, is lost. 

Rosa looks down. It’s not a long way, and there’s a stretch of grass below, a forgiving surface with room to roll the landing. She smiles. There’s no reason for it. No reason not to go back to her room, get dressed, collect her keys from the dresser and walk out through reception like any sane person would. No reason to risk her neck and then run madly along the beach in her pyjamas.

But she wants to. Just because.

She slides down from the roof and stands on the railing.

Her gut churns. She ignores it. Bad fish at dinner. Her knuckles whiten against the wall. 

She wants to jump. She really does. She can do it.

(But.)

(What if?)

She jumps. 

Air rushes past and she hits the ground rolling. A pebble digs into her back and she muffles a cry, not quite making it to her feet. She sits there, in the damp grass, breathing herself through it. Her hands are shaking and she balls them into fists. It’s not the pain. That’s passing. It’ll heal.

It’s not that. It’s adrenaline. It’s _what’s the worst that can happen_ suddenly seeming so much more likely. All the different ways her leap could have gone wrong flashing across her mind’s eye. 

She did her job. Worked a case. Competed with Jake. Tried to impress someone she very much admired. (Bile rises in her throat). Nowhere on her risk assessment radar was _get framed for bank robbery and sentenced to fifteen years in prison_. Until it was a freight train barreling towards them and they were crushed beneath it.

So now: what else is she going to miss? What else will she be too late to stop?

She stands. Runs down the grass, across the path and onto the beach. It’s eerily quiet. The moon picks out the sand in grey and white. She wraps her jacket around her shoulders, shoes sliding as she walks. It’s at least 4am. It won’t be long before the sun is up. Her eyes itch but her mind is still racing. She’d had such high hopes for this… trip? Escape? Whatever it is. Thought that if she just got away, had a day, an evening, to do whatever she wanted, then she could fix herself. Put herself back together before real life came pouring in. 

But she’s running out of time. 

She has to be back in Brooklyn tomorrow. Unlock her apartment, buy groceries, deal with whatever shitty post is piled up on her doorstep. Make some phone calls. Collect Arlo from Charles. She smiles as her stomach aches with missing him. Buy dog food. Go back to the precinct on Monday. Sort out whatever paperwork and bureaucracy it takes to get her job back. Perhaps there’s a form for _temporary suspension of duties due to unjust incarceration_. Amy would know.

Her fists clench in her jacket pockets. Everyone will be watching. Everyone, from Gary on reception to the weird quiet dude in the post-room, will know who she is and where she’s been. Perhaps she should take some time off. But as much as she dreads going back, she can’t stand the idea of her life continuing to roll on without her. 

The sky is turning grey. Her legs ache with adrenaline and exertion, her feet slipping over the sand with every step. She turns around to head back to the hotel. Perhaps she’s tired enough to sleep now.

  
  
  
  



	3. Three

There’s a knocking. Reserved but insistent.

Rosa wakes groggily. Her eyelids are made of lead and her mouth feels like sandpaper. 

“Ma’am?”

She wraps the bathrobe over her pyjamas and stumbles to open the door.

“It’s gone check-out time, dear.” The motherly woman on the other side smiles sympathetically.

“Crap.”

“Don’t worry. Housekeeping’s started at the other end, but we do need you out by 11.30.”

“Yes, sure. Thanks. Sorry.”

The woman smiles kindly again, as though she understands exactly what’s going on here, exactly why Rosa’s struggling to keep her eyes open, squinting at the bright light in the corridor. Rosa tries to shut the door, but the woman’s not done.

“We’ve stopped serving breakfast, but there’s a cafe down the road that serves it all-day. Just a half mile out of town on the left.”

“Thanks.”

Rosa gently pushes the door shut and slides down the back of it, scrubbing her hands over her face to force herself to alertness. She’s barely reached REM sleep in eight weeks. Now her brain really doesn’t want to let it go.

 _Come on Diaz_ she mutters to herself, _get your act together._

She throws herself in the shower. Cold water would wake her up, but she’s has enough freezing showers for several lifetimes, thank you very much, so she cranks the heat up and fills the room with steam again. Her stomach rumbles.

It doesn’t take long to dress and throw her belongings in her rucksack. She rifles through the bottom of it. No hairbrush. After last night’s antics with wet hair, her hair is a birds' nest. But nothing to be done about it. She gathers the mane into a loose ponytail and heads out.

She stops at the cafe down the road. Breakfast is incredible. She’s forgotten there were so many flavours. Maybe prison was worth it, just for this rediscovery of food. Don’t be stupid. Still. Good breakfast.

She rides fast back into the city, through the Bronx and Queens into Brooklyn, the tension in her shoulders easing with every familiar sight. As she pulls up outside her apartment block, her phone vibrates in her pocket. She pulls her helmet off and checks it. It’s Jake.

_Shaw’s later?_

She contemplates. Part of her just wants to do what she has to, and then curl up on her sofa with a glass of wine and a book. Shut out the world with Arlo’s heavy weight across her lap. But she also wants to see Jake in the flesh. See for herself that they've both come through the other side.

Her phone buzzes again. It’s Amy.

_Please?_

She sighs, air blowing out between her teeth. Two against one.

_Sure_

_Great! We’ll be there at 8._

And then another from Jake: _Oh I see how it is. Twelve years of d-holes is nothing next to Amy’s cheap tricks_

_Saying please?_

_Uhuh. Feminine wiles etc etc…_   
_(See you later. Can’t wait. Prison does not do good beer. Or any beer.)_

Rosa rolls her eyes and heads inside.

…

Jake’s waiting when she pulls up on her bike a few hours later, lounging next to the doorway in his leather jacket and a t-shirt. His eyes light up when he catches sight of her, and she fights back a smile as she locks up and rests her helmet on the handlebars.

“Hey.” She nods at him.

“Hey yourself.” He gives her a chance to stop him and then dives in for a bone-crushing hug. She tenses for half a second and lets out a long breath. It feels good. 

He lets go.

“Don’t do that again.” She deadpans. But they both know she’s not serious. “Where’s Amy?”

His eyes dart furtively to the doorway, “Inside.”

She slumps against the handlebars, “Everyone’s here, aren’t they?”

“Uhuh.”

“Literally everyone?”

“Even Gary from reception and that weird quiet dude from the post-room.” He confirms.

“Urgh.” She groans. “I thought it was a quiet drink.”

“It’s alright. I’ll be loud and obnoxious and take everyone’s attention, and you can stand in a dark corner looking bad-ass so no-one talks to you. You know,” he grins, “Normal routine.”

She fights back a laugh. She really doesn’t want to talk to people, and dreads the scrutiny she’s going to face as soon as they step though that door. But she’s also missed them so much it hurts to breath.

Jake has his serious face on. She raises an eyebrow. 

“Back at the Academy.” He reminds her of their conversation in the courtroom, just before they were smeared over the tracks. His expression is sheepish. He’s going to be a complete sap. “Still woulda said right here.”

“Really?” She shakes her head, exasperated, “I wouldn’t.”

His mouth opens in horror.

“But…” she concedes, “If I had to. No-one I’d rather do it with.”

“Ha! You said something nice!”

She rolls her eyes, “Shut up and get this over with.” She nods at Charles hovering impatiently inside the doorway, “He’s going to explode if we don’t get a move-on.”

She finishes locking her helmet to her bike and puts her keys away. Following Jake up the steps, she shakes herself a little. _Game face on, Diaz._

As Charles goes ahead to announce them, Jake leans over and whispers in her ear, “I made a mashed potato Amy in solitary.” 

Rosa snorts. “That’s messed up, man.”

They enter and cheers wash over them. It’s noisy and overwhelming, but also welcoming and comfortable and _home_. She knows who she is here. Knows how to be.

…

Terry seeks her out later. He slides into the booth opposite her. She swirls a tumbler of whiskey in her hand. 

“Did it work? Getting away?” He asks.

She shrugs, “It’s a lot. I wanted to sort myself out. Be ready to be back.”

“I get that.” He scrutinizes her, “But it’s ok if you’re not. Ready, I mean. You don’t have to do it all on your own.”

Rosa shrugs, “Yeah. I know.” Maybe she does know. Maybe things are different. She raises her glass, “To getting my head on straight.”

Terry clinks his glass with hers, “To coming home.”

  
  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Hope you liked my first attempt at this fandom - comments and feedback are awesome if you have the time!


End file.
